the colour harmony!!

In our country ruled by gods, varied,  news is like fire that only needs ignition.  Every other anti-social tales, whether it be  corruption chains,  food insecurities selling the female body,  child abuse waste management,  or what ever, similar images and news filter in over the democracy  like a river overflowing  banks of human wisdom. And now, the current rape. Media: print, visual and social are oozing out red. Stained butterfly marks carry outlines of age old sin on print and posters. Gathering images of a mapless country conjured upon a dissection table, squashing young or old  from Gandhi to Irom or from Kashmir to Kanyakumari My doubts are not about the news but about myself reading the stories one after the other sitting in my drawing room  and drinking hot coffee. Why do I read them? and expect more to come by ? What details do I search in it? The act of rape or the feel of flesh as its strip

1) Posters on an island Islands   are half baked flour beds where you sew in townships of late wisdom. You sketch seasons, on them Spring, summer and autumn, and paste them on those designer walls. Evenings have become so clichéd that I no more see sunsets in my coffee mug. You smoke out, Or is it me? over written scripts of type set nothings. The streets that I walked through, last night had by lanes of culinary shops, spice hunts. Colors of you and me, across grey stone pathways. 2) I I won’t burn in love, Or be cellars of Persian wine. Wilderness has lost its exotic greens To pale yellow sandbanks sane. You displace cannibal weeds And I miss my mermaid yearn. II Lost my way, I would rather say, In those sunflower islands I saw on his lips As he smiled that day Quite far away In that candlelit darkness Of a screen less theatre. 3) I won’t speak of your bindi That sweats and form upright reddish waterfall sketches, To the left or right On your forehead

My stretch marks are returning like emerging waves  upon the beach tan of my skin abdomen is a civilization that grows to complete the globe

Along the process of evolution A genre stopped midway and, grew buds of laughter  and love, as they flew past horizons of water colors. Lilacs, Lemons and Strawberries and called each other Diana. Women of the hills, daughters of Vayu and of the valley, gypsies of flower gardens and tastes of spice routes, are borne of a race, unknown to the domestic walls of  routine and loss As they move, in and out of boredom and bedspread to the kitchen sink, they breed zygotes of storm on their bath, breads and dinner plates. The feast for the Gods, that they serve upon their bodies, in between the legs of the dinning table, are nothing, but routine rice puddings on skin salt less and stale, for  the lust of the other race. To taste the female you need to fly along and cross paths of Odysseus, wonderlands of Alice,  and northern sunflower fields, taste wine, laugh aloud kiss the air, and copulate downstream where the